


The Gift

by Macx



Series: Gray Areas [21]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley and Feelings, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley gives Aziraphale an intensely personal gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

He didn't know what had come over him. In all his life on Earth and even before that, Crowley had never, and he meant never, had the inclination to buy something for anyone. Not even to tempt a particular person or group. No, buying things were entirely not his style.

So why was he wandering around Covent Garden and browsing through the multitude of shops?

The demon grumbled to himself, glaring at a pantomime who promptly missed a step and slipped on the cobbled stones. People laughed, thinking it was part of the act, and he quickly got back to what he had intended to do.

As did Crowley.

Much to his chagrin.

Pressing through the masses coming here every day, tourists and Londoners alike, he let his shaded eyes pass over the vendors, the stands, the shops, into arcades and basement shops.

Anthony J. Crowley was a demon in love and there had to be exceptional rules applying for that kind of thing, he thought desperately as he looked into the window of a sweets shop.

Demons, as a general and very basic rule, didn't love. They didn't love and didn't fall in love, and the whole loving affair was usually laughed at and scowled upon. Fallen angels did not do angel stuff. Angels loved – and they loved everyone and everything on a broad scale.

So demons could stop the loving and turn to the demonic.

Crowley, while a demon, wasn't purely evil deep down inside. Lately, even that had changed. Deep down had come to the surface and he had developed a lot of softer emotions that he had probably caught from Aziraphale. It had to be some kind of virus, like a disease, and it had caught him. An affliction of love.

But thinking of curing that made him wince and beat the idea into a pulp.

Crowley liked what he felt. He felt it toward his angel, Aziraphale, the one person… being… whatever… who had been around on Earth as long as he had been. Aziraphale had been his companion, even if he had worked for the other Side, and he had been his friend. When that had happened was anyone's guess. It had just naturally evolved.

Evolution was a grand old thing that worked nicely for Crowley. Even when it came to love.

Their love had grown, had developed, had turned into something special for him, and he wanted to express that. He wanted to show Aziraphale with more than physical acts how much he appreciated the angel, loved him, needed him.

He stopped in front of a flower shop and grimaced again. No, flowers were out of the question. How much more clichéd could it be? And Aziraphale wasn't some little woman who would swoon over some wilting plant-life.

Crowley could just hear the angel's 'oh, well, how nice' in that amused tone that told him 'Crowley, you moron' in very clear tones. Aziraphale had that air around him that translated general 'my dears' into insults and outright scepticism concerning Crowley's mental state at the moment.

So no flowers. And no sweets.

He wanted something that meant more than just a passing fancy for Aziraphale, because it was what the angel was to him. Aziraphale was permanent, ever-present, everywhere for Crowley. He had been there for six millennia and Crowley wanted to sum all that up and add some more.

With a deep sigh he walked into the arcades and immediately headed for a book shop. Aziraphale liked books, collected them, but looking at the paperbacks and hardcovers, Crowley doubted any of those would interest his lover.

'Ten Ways to Survive the Apocalypse' might make the angel smile a little, the demon thought as he flipped through the book, but it wasn't really something that screamed 'Aziraphale' at him.

He still bought it just for laughs and was on his way again.

Ten shops with all kinds of silly little gifts that no one needed but still bought because at the time the thing made them go 'awww', Crowley entered an antiques shop. It was small and musty, but still light enough to see the display inside.

There were all kinds of old things, all of which Crowley had been around before. Ancient typewriters, chairs, figurines, household items, books and pictures. There was a gramophone, an old picture box, a very delicate tea cup set and…

He stopped and almost took off the sunglasses. Just almost. There, on a lacquered table made of maple wood, stood the perfect gift for his angel.

"May I help you, sir?"

The voice belonged to a middle-aged man in an old-fashioned suit that rivalled Aziraphale's outfit. Spectacles sat low on his nose, almost balancing on the tip. His thin hair was combed back and he gave Crowley a polite smile of someone who had discovered a rather unusual specimen of customer.

"Ah, I see you've discovered a very unique piece of my collection."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. He even sounded like his angel at his best.

"I'm afraid it's one piece short of being complete, though."

"The feather," Crowley remarked.

"Yes. I've been meaning to find a suitable replacement, but alas, it is difficult."

Crowley nodded, letting a finger run over the smooth material, appreciating the workmanship.

"I'll take it."

Now the man's eyebrows twitched a little, but he smiled pleasantly. "Good choice, sir. Let me wrap it up safely for you."

With that he walked past Crowley and gathered the item in question.

"A very good choice," he went on. "It's a custom made, unique, one-of-a-kind item. The late Lord Creighton-Ward inherited it from his grandmother. It had been her gift from her husband when they were spoken for."

Crowley listened to the chatter and finally paid for the wrapped-up gift with a credit card, then exited the shop. Almost cradling the gift in his arms, a smile on his lips, he walked back where he had parked the Bentley.

Driving almost peacefully through the streets of London, smiling even more, Crowley was close to humming. He just about caught himself and switched on his stereo.

 

* * *

 

Crowley set the gift down and looked at it with appreciative eyes. Yes, it had been a good investment.

Unfolding his wings, shaking them out a little, he curled the right one forward and looked at the pitch-black feathers with their fine line of white at the edge. He stroked over the gleaming, healthy feathers and finally chose one. With a little wince he pulled it out and shook the wing again. The injury was tiny, nothing compared to other injuries he had endured.

The long feather was perfect. Jet black with a hint of the white at one side. It was as if a fine dust had settled on the edge of the flight feather. He cleaned off the tiny droplets of blood and then set about his work to turn it into the equally perfect addition to his gift.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale had closed his shop for a while to run errands. He had called another collector about an advertisement in the local paper, asking for people interested in buying a part of his collection. Aziraphale had done more than that. He had actually bought almost all of it. The man was in dire need of funds and the angel couldn't help but tell him that if he ever came about some money again and was interested in buying back his books, they would be there for him.

He just couldn't help it. It was in his blood, so to speak.

Returning to the shop, Aziraphale felt the definite presence of a demonic entity, and he knew exactly who it was. Crowley.

He smiled.

A few centuries ago it might have shocked him, a few decades just mildly surprised him, that he could tell apart Crowley from other demons and their vile auras. Now it was perfectly normal and expected.

"Crowley?" he called as he carried the load he had purchased into his shop.

He put the box behind the cashier counter, locking the shop with a wave of his hand before some shopping-happy customer could get in unsupervised, and walked into the back room.

Aziraphale stopped when he looked at his office table, blinking in surprise.

"What…?"

On the worn desk top was a neatly wrapped box with his name scrawled on it. It was Crowley's handwriting and there was a neat little curl to the 'Z' as the label only said 'Zira'.

"Crowley?" he called again, mystified.

And curious. Angels were curious by nature and Aziraphale was an angel. His hands were caressing the simple brown paper almost lovingly.

"Open it," a soft voice suggested and there was a faint hiss to it.

He looked over his shoulder and into the yellow eyes of his demon. "What is it?"

"Open it," Crowley whispered again.

Aziraphale undid the wrapping and slowly opened the cardboard box. Looking at its contents he blinked again. He took out the items so carefully placed inside and put them onto the table with equal care.

There was an alabaster coloured tray, about thirty centimetres long and ten wide. It was obviously handmade. The second item was a glass vial. It was white glass, stained with what looked like cracks but which were just decoration. It was corked and filled with a black liquid.

Ink.

Aziraphale put it onto the tray and it clinked softly. The glass was exquisite, perfect workmanship that could no longer be found in this day and age. So simple and yet so beautiful.

There was a second vial, empty, heavier, and made of the same glass. Last was a wooden box, as long as his lower arm, very flat and light, despite the heavy material it had been made from. Flipping the latch he opened it and his mouth formed an 'o', no sound coming out. Slightly shaking fingers caressed the midnight black feather nestled on the white satiny sheet inside the box. The quill had been shaped to write with it.

"Crowley," he whispered, awed.

He touched the feather, delighting in the softness and the small ripples of power still emanating from it.

Crowley was right behind him and Aziraphale felt the shudder running through his demon.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"Yes," the angel answer, turning completely toward the dark-haired being. "Yes, I love it very much. Thank you."

He held the feather gently to his chest, gazing into the slightly golden glowing eyes.

"What came over you?"

"Isn't this custom?" Crowley asked nervously. "To exchange gifts?"

"For humans, yes. I never received a gift from another angel. Or a demon." Aziraphale's eyes twinkled a little.

"It's custom among friends and lovers, too," the demon murmured and closed the distance, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale's fingers as they caressed the feather.

The angel saw lust rise in those demonic eyes, lust and need and arousal. He deliberately tickled the feather with a gentle touch and was rewarded with another shudder from his lover. Aziraphale could feel the demon's magic still lodged in the feather, could pick it up with ease, and it was apparently relaying his touches to the source it had come from. Leaving a potent demonic item around was gross negligence, but for now he didn't want to seal it. It was…interesting.

Later he would, though. The danger was incalculable.

"Thank you, Crowley. How very thoughtful of you," he said softly and closed the last distance, kissing the other on the lips.

The close-mouthed kiss was soon very much open and passionate, and the feather was wedged between them, taking no harm at all. An angel's feather, even a fallen angel's, is rather resilient.

"I've nothing for you," Aziraphale finally whispered.

Crowley wanted to say so much, wanted to tell him that Zira was enough for him, that he had been given the greatest gift already that a demon could ask for. But like a natural defence against mushy moments, there was nothing coming out. His brain was completely tied into a knot. Now and then he could tell Aziraphale something he felt, but not today.

Aziraphale pulled back, the black feather still cradled against his chest, and Crowley swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry when he looked into his beloved angel’s blue eyes. There was something close to an evil glint, and the sweet smile directed at him oh so innocent… yeah right.

Aziraphale stroked the feather.

The little spark that flew over Crowley’s spine, not unlike touching a live wire or a fully charged battery, made the demon gasp in surprise and arch – and Aziraphale smiled.

Blessed angel…

Fingers danced over the feather again, and Crowley moaned with the unexpected sensation. Sure, he knew his wings, like Aziraphale’s, were rather sensitive and he immensely enjoyed having them groomed or petted, like a cat would enjoy being stroked – and sometimes he felt like purring, too - but not like this.

G… whoever, not like this.

The little sparkles ran over his entire backbone and seemed to concentrate in his neither regions, making his leather pants far too tight.

“You’re a tease, Zira… “

“Who? Me?!”

The angel lifted the feather to his mouth, blowing over it gently before he kissed it. Crowley was entirely thankful for the helpful armchair that miraculously appeared behind him, taking his weight as his knees turned into jelly.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Is everything in order, my dear?”

Whatever Crowley might have wanted to answer, it turned into a low moan when the angel twisted the feather between his fingers, the sensation making his hips twitch. How did he know how to do such things? How did he know how to manipulate a demon?? And how in H… whatever’s name could he have forgotten about the residual magic lying in a living demon feather?

Obviously Aziraphale hadn’t.

The angel was playing with the feather now, running it over his… exposed chest? Crowley clenched his fingers into the armchair, burying his claws into the unfortunate piece of furniture at what the sight did to him. All he wanted was to jump up, grab his lover and… oh, blessed, why not take him over the desk?

He gave a low, desperate growl.

"Are you quite all right, dear?"

"Ngh!"

"You do look a bit flushed," the angel remarked innocently, still playing with the feather.

Crowley hissed, distress rising. A pleasant kind of distress. "Angel…"

"Yes?"

And then Crowley lost all semblance of control. There was a little gasp from Aziraphale that soon turned into a moan of appreciation.

 

* * *

 

He became aware of gentle hands stroking over his bare back, playing along the roots of his wings.

Wings?

Crowley frowned, not aware of ever spreading them. But he must have. He felt them, heavy weights on his back, limp like the rest of him, and tenderly petted by angelic hands.

"Dear?"

"Hn," he grunted, unable to make his tongue move.

He was too exhausted. So pleasantly exhausted and satisfied.

"Are you all right, Crowley?"

All right? He was wonderful! Perfect!

"…sss…" was all that left his lips, though he had planned a very clear 'Yes'.

Aziraphale's lips were on his cheek, his temple, his forehead, mapping a moist path, then covering one eye.

"…ngl," Crowley tried and blinked his eyes open. It was hard work.

What he saw made him shiver in remembered pleasure. Aziraphale was positively glowing, the blue eyes brighter and deeper than ever, the dark blond hair shot through with gold. His skin was luminous, the aura so vibrant it was like receiving an electric shock.

Those maddening hands stroked over his exposed chest, briefly scanning.

"I didn't want to drain you so much, dear," the angel whispered, almost apologetically.

Crowley grabbed the caressing hand and squeezed it. "Didn't," he managed, fighting for the energy to hold a coherent conversation. "Was fantastic."

Aziraphale blushed a little.

"Feather still here?" Crowley asked.

"Ehm, yes. I… sealed it, though."

He scowled. "Why?"

"It's dangerous, dear. This… I mean, this was a nice side-effect, but if someone abuses it… he would have access to your very energy!"

"Nice side-effect?" Crowley exclaimed and sat up, feeling a moment of dizziness that passed quickly. His body was recovering. "You call it nice? It was mind-blowing, angel! You were fucking delicious! I didn't know you were that much of a devil to use the feathers that way!"

Aziraphale looked positively shocked, embarrassed, chastised and mortified in one, with a sprinkle of satisfaction and delightful left-over lust.

"I…"

Crowley silenced him with a kiss that almost drained him again. "Zira, it was great," he whispered. "I loved it. I love you."

"You're a masochist."

"I'm a demon," he replied, grinning devilishly.

Aziraphale huffed. Then his features softened and he fingercombed some dark strands out of Crowley's face. "Thank you for the gift, Crowley. It's very special to me."

The demon fidgeted a little, then shrugged.

The angel leaned forward and kissed him, a tender contact of lips against lips. "Thank you."

Crowley wrapped his arms around him and they sank onto the bed together, kissing each other tenderly, hands caressing over warm skin. Crowley let his wings stay out, covering himself and his other half.

Almost asleep, the angel snuggled closer against Crowley’s chest, humming softly when the other’s arm slid around his waist.

Yellow eyes spied the feather lying not far away and the demon smiled.


End file.
